The Low Spark of HighHeeled Newsies
by Ish Potato Fiend
Summary: A skittery young Louis tears himself away from his prejudiced upbringing, and lands topsy-turvy in a glam rock surreality. (1970s) (Slash: Skits/Race)
1. Chapter One

Notes: Awright. Here goes my first attempt at a Newsie fanfic. Comments and criticisms highly appreciated and to be rewarded with cookies, because this is not only my first Newsie fanfic, it's my first fanfic ever, which means I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Ahem.  
The title of the fic is drawn from the song "The Low Spark of High- Heeled Boys" by Traffic. *boogies down*  
  
Warnings: A bit of swearing here and there (or "cussing," as you Americans like to put it), eventual slash (Skits/Race), and completely shameless references to David Bowie and Lou Reed. A brief self-insertion stint as a background character is incoming.  
  
Oh yeah, and the disclaimer: Newsies and everything related to it belongs to Disney, except the fanfiction (although who knows, Walt D. might have gotten down and written out a heated slash or two in his time.) and any OCs therein. I wish I owned Newsies. Then I could start a man-brothel. Hee hee. Ahem.  
  
Endless bouts of thanks to Mis and Shade for bugging me to write a Newsie fic. (And slash, no less!)  
  
So, bear with me. Or, if I'm lucky: Enjoy!  
  
-Ish  
  
---  
  
In a lesser-known area of New York, its description wavering uncertainly between a city and a suburb, there was an avenue called Fifth. Fifth avenue was nicely lined with large, admirable deciduous trees that shed a relief of shade for pedestrians suffering in the terrible summer heat. Walking down this avenue, such a humidity-tormented pedestrian would inevitably pass a pleasant brick house with white trim, and a mailbox in the front yard that said "Reed." In this house lived a youth who, in this sheltered, lush neighborhood, was about to be spiritually enlightened in a way that certainly his family or his neighbours would have heartily disapproved. This young man, in effect, was about to take a casual stroll on the wild side.  
  
Louis looked across his bowl at the tiny portrait of the Negro chef that smiled up at him from the Cream of Wheat box. He traced the word "black" in the pasty white breakfast substance, the lines filling up even as he formed them, and recalled yesterday's conversation between his parents.  
  
"Dammit, Liza," his father had said in a frustrated voice as his wife pulled her groceries out of the shopping bag. "You can't even buy damn oatmeal without seeing a black somewhere. New York had it right at the turn of the century, you know. Keep the blacks in their part of town and us in our own." He'd reached out a large, hairy hand and picked up the package, scrutinizing it scornfully with his small, grey eyes, before setting it down again with a derisive snort.  
  
"Now, now, Jake," Louis' mother had replied soothingly. "It's only a food package. It's only right that they prepare our meals for us, hm?"  
  
This blatant show of racism bothered Louis, but his stretched nerves didn't affect his judgment, and he knew better than to speak out against his father. His prejudices weren't the only traditionalist things about him - he wasn't afraid to use physical force to punish his son.  
  
Now, as Louis was halfheartedly eating his supposedly Negro-prepared breakfast ("It's only the mascot that's black, dad," he'd pointed out), he heard his father emit a sound of utmost disgust from behind the newspaper he was reading. The paper - headline: "Baby Born With Three Heads!" - lowered so that his father was able to make eye contact with Louis, who flinched at his expression.  
  
"You got a bad case of the skitters there, son. Take care of that. Now, listen," he said, folding the paper back and holding it in one hand. "The world's going funny; it's in a rut, you could say. Now, don't lose hope, boy. Our boy Nixon is going to take care of this nonsense once and for all, but while he's preparing to do so, I want you to watch out for yourself. There are all kinds of funny things going on these days, you hear?"  
  
Louis grunted an assent. "What's up?"  
  
"This," replied his father, throwing the paper across the table towards Louis (and, effectively, sloshing the picture of the baby with cream of wheat, so that it now only appeared to have two point five heads to speak of). Louis stared at the paper blankly and opened his mouth to ask a question, but Jake had reached across the table and rammed a finger into a column that said "Music Review" as a header.  
  
"Er. The Best of Frank Sinatra?" asked Louis.  
  
His father looked up at him in confusion for a moment, before seeing where he'd pointed. Quickly he shifted his aim and stamped the end of a greasy index finger on the review below it.  
  
Louis began to read the strange title out loud: " 'Ziggy St-'"  
  
"They've got fucking queers in the media!" raged Jake, standing up to his full six feet in indignation.  
  
"Language, dear!" admonished Louis' mother from the living room where she sat placidly in her oak rocking chair, knitting.  
  
"Just a minute, Liza," replied Jake distractedly, before turning back to his son. "Listen, Louis. I say Nixon's going to take care of this once and for all, but when they've got fags in the entertainment business - and giving them good reviews, at that! Son, there's something to be said for watching who you talk to and where to go. I'm saying this for your own good, Louis."  
  
"Yessir."  
  
"Good. Good," mumbled Louis' father, turning away and walking out of the room, clearly still shaken by the fact that the paper had allowed such a blemish on society into public press.  
  
Louis watched him go before turning curiously back to the music review column, glancing apprehensively at that particular review his father had pointed out as though it would alert his father of his reading it.  
  
He shot another apprehensive look toward the doorway, and then tried to look nonchalant as he scanned the title of the record.  
  
"Ziggy Stardust," he read softly so as not to be overheard. "Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars?" A smile played at his lips. "The Spiders from Mars." He looked at the cover illustration: an androgynous young man leaning on a building, sporting an eyesore of a turquoise outfit. He scanned the rest of the article:  
  
"David Bowie. revolutionary new album. glam rock. gender-bending . extraordinary." he repeated the words out loud as he read them.  
  
"Crazy," he grinned, standing up. He dropped the paper unceremoniously onto the table and picked up his dishes. "Gender-bending. Crazy," he repeated. "He certainly does look like a pouf."  
  
Funnily, though, this description didn't make him feel as repelled as he thought it would. Intrigued might have been more accurate. 


	2. Chapter Two

Warnings: Er, none this time around?  
  
Notes: I hate writing "eighth." Do you? Should I be sado-masochistic and keep writing it over and over and over again? Eighth, eighth, eighth... Ahem. Yes. Oh, and thanks to everyone for the nice reviews... Good to see there are other Bowie fans out there =D  
  
-Ish  
  
---  
  
If he spread his fingers wide apart and held them up beside him, he could almost see the rays of light shining through the gaps: it was that early in the morning. It had been a while since he'd taken an early-morning stroll, but recent events seemed to demand it. That was why, on June 18th, 1972, Louis was walking aimlessly down the picturesque Fifth avenue at seven in the morning.  
  
The school year was finally over, he reminded himself as he watched the beams of light shining past his hand, looking so optimistic and misplaced in the shady, tired monotony that continued down the length of Fifth avenue. And Sixth avenue. And Seventh avenue - and suddenly it seemed like summer in its entirety was presenting itself before him in the same endless stretch that characterized his neighbourhood so well.  
  
Although, Louis couldn't think why the idea of summer vacation weighed down upon him with such negative insistence this year as opposed to the many before. He'd always managed to find something to do, usually hanging out with his friend David. But in the last couple of weeks, David's boring factor had risen shockingly, almost to match his sister, Sarah's. Louis guessed it was a family trait.  
  
Or maybe Louis was only seeing things differently. Ever since he'd seen the review, the positive review of that album that his father had condemned. The positive review of an album made by a "fag."  
  
With that thought, Louis turned on his heel and headed towards Eighth avenue.  
  
Eighth avenue was, according to David, "the home of the state of New York's biggest and most shameful blemish of a citizen. A man who openly exhibits his digusting mannerisms to our neighbourhood at the expense of our peace of mind." In other words, a homosexual lived there. David was a good talker, but he didn't know what he was talking about; that's how Louis interpreted it.  
  
There was no open sign that Eighth was harbouring a "most shameful blemish of a citizen": it looked normal enough. There were the beautiful, old trees that made a kind of arch over the street and bathed it in shade with streams of light shining through - in fact, Eighth was the street most covered in shadow, and so the beams of light gave it an almost heavenly effect. Or at least Louis thought so: both David and Louis' father had agreed it looked eerie.  
  
Louis recognized the house immediately, although he'd never seen it before: there was a large window in the front, beside the door, and the a good quarter of said window was covered not with glass, but with a crude mass of caramel-brown duct tape. Louis recalled David telling him arrogantly about an attack he and a couple of friends had staged on the house, having succeeded to smash one of the windows before the elusive homosexual had finally appeared to chase them away.  
  
"Hello."  
  
Louis was snapped out of his reverie and he looked quickly towards the door of the house. A young man, probably in his early or mid twenties was standing there, looking at Louis with natural friendliness and learned apprehension.  
  
He looks so normal, thought Louis.  
  
"Can I help you?" said the man a little loudly.  
  
"Er," replied Louis. He took a deep breath and walked up the stairs to the door, so that he was only a foot away from the queer. From the person, he corrected himself. "I was wondering if you, um. Do you have... Do you know..." That was when his etiquette training kicked in, and he started afresh:  
  
"Hi," he said. "I'm Louis." He stuck out his hand a bit stiffly and stared at the other man with a completely blank, yet slightly curious expression.  
  
"Hi. I'm Jack," introduced Jack, lightly mocking Louis' awkwardness. "Will you come in?" He stepped aside and gestured into his house.  
  
Louis looked petrified. "Um," he said.  
  
For a moment, Jack looked very crestfallen at this unintentional slap to his dignity, but the expression was gone in a moment and he smiled again. "You'll sit out on the porch, then?" he offered, stepping outside and closing the door behind him.  
  
"I don't want my-" Louis stopped abruptly and tried to act like he hadn't said anything.  
  
"Friends to see you?" finished Jack, whose smile by this time was looking rather strained. "I didn't realize I'd become such a social taboo."  
  
"It's not my friends," said Louis. "They're... they don't matter. It's my dad. He doesn't like people like, er, like you." He rushed on quickly, "I mean, I wouldn't mind, only I live with him, and."  
  
Jack nodded. "Of course. The old homophobic dad," he said, and it was obvious from the way he said it that his own father had hardly been open- minded as far as Jack's sexuality went. "Is there a chance he'd be walking around here this early in the morning?"  
  
Louis shook his head. "Did you run away?" he asked on a whim. "From your dad, I mean."  
  
"Hah. No, I didn't tell him until I was out of university. I needed him to pay me through, don't you know. Once I'd gotten my bachelor's degree, I came out to him, he exploded and attempted to wring my throat, and then I left." He winced, and then laughed a little. "I'm so sorry, you wanted to ask me about something?"  
  
"Oh," said Louis, having momentarily forgotten about it. "Er, yes. I was wondering if you knew about Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, by David Bowie. It came out a few weeks ago, and it got really good reviews in the Sun, and the article called him a gender-bender and, um, I was wondering..."  
  
He was broken off by loud laughter. "Oh, jeez," said Jack. "If my droogs could hear that. I'm thinking you're rebelling against the constraints of this awful society and having no idea how to do it. correct? Don't worry, everyone like me has that Ziggy Stardust album. We're slaves to it. You wait here, I'll get it."  
  
Louis was left outside wondering what a "droog" was as Jack hurried back into the house and closed the door behind him.  
  
Jack emerged momentarily holding the album in his hand, and Louis felt his heart speed up with excitement and nervousness as he spotted the young man wearing the god awfully turquoise outfit, poised in what could not possibly be described as a masculine way.  
  
"This is it," said Jack, holding the album out to Louis. "It's damned awesome, you'll see. I want it back in a week, though. I even don't know if I can separate myself from it for that long."  
  
"Are you - are you all like this?" inquired Louis, fascinated by how highly Jack regarded Ziggy.  
  
Jack laughed boisterously again. "Hah, I don't know. There are quite a few of us. Of course, I have a friend who can't stand half the songs, but he's still thrilled by the statement Bowie's making. This is such a groundbreaking thing, you know? And he's not bad looking, either."  
  
"Yeah," said Louis with a huge grin on his face, turning to head home. "Yeah, I can tell."  
  
---  
  
He was reluctant to look at the cover of the album after that. There was something in the pit of his stomach that twisted every time he thought of David Bowie, or Ziggy Stardust, posed beside a building, looking out at him. He was terrified that he would agree with Jack and find Bowie attractive. There wasn't much chance to look at the case, though: he kept it hidden almost all the time, wisely, only taking it out when his parents went out.  
  
When Louis did listen to it, he loved it. 


	3. Chapter Three

Notes, disclaimer, and the like: First off, I don't own Newsies. I just own this fanfic and all original characters therein. Which, ah, adds up to one background character. Check my mad OC skillz =P  
  
In this chapter, my darlings, we meet Spot and Racetrack. Hee hee hee.  
  
...That was horrible. I'm sorry. Anyway, I'm writing this chapter at 3 in the morning, so I'm incredibly sorry if it seems rushed. I'm going away tomorrow for a week to some vague island off the coast of the city tomorrow, so I didn't want to have to procrastinate yet more with this story. So! Hopefully it's not too bad, but keep in mind that it is both late and rushed =P Sorry all! I will probably redo this chapter just a bit in the future.  
  
So. Here we go!  
  
-Ish  
  
************  
  
To Louis, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars was nothing less than a godsend. Were he to call it such a thing in the presence of his parents, of course, the reaction would have been vile: one did not combine the shameless fag heathens in the media with the divine.  
  
But that's what Ziggy was. Divine. Louis had even admitted to himself that this David Bowie fellow wasn't bad looking, although saying he was attracted to him would have been going a bit far. It was the music, and the message therein, that Louis truly found divine. Every time his parents went out, he would play the album, savouring it at the prudently low volume at which it was played, dreading the day he would have to return it to Jack.  
  
On one such day, when he parents were out at an early matinée - hosted by David's parents, Louis believed - Louis lay back on his bed, listening to the celebrated guitar solo of Moonage Daydream, losing all sense of time and place. The tunes took him away, made him daydream that he lived in a place where his parents were accepting, where David didn't speak out against gays, where Jack was widely accepted and everyone admired Louis for being a close friend of his. All this was, of course, nonsense: neither David nor Louis' parents were likely to change their views anytime soon.  
  
As for Jack, Louis was only a vague acquaintance. He'd been to see him once since Jack had lent him the album, asking if he knew of any more people who were fans of Bowie. Jack had replied cryptically that he knew of several others, and then had dismissed Louis in a very polite, friendly, but rather secretive manner.  
  
The one thing Louis could never fight against, of course, was the call of Mother Nature. Getting up from his bed, he headed to the bathroom to relieve himself. He set the toilet seat up and began to do his business. Shortly after this, he heard the click of the door downstairs, and the thump-thump-thump of his father walking into the house with his customary heavy gait, with his mother's voice following him in pleasantly.  
  
From his room, Louis heard the chorus of "Lady Stardust" starting. He swore vigorously at himself and silently urged his bladder on, and, having over and done with, yanked his pants up and dashed out of the bathroom. Into his room he hastened, hurrying towards the record player, making to tear the needle away from the album regardless of the damage he might do to the player.  
  
There was no need to do this, however: the job had already been done for him.  
  
"Er," said Louis. "Hi, Dad."  
  
Jake did not reply. His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes shone with horror, anger, and fear. There was a vein standing out on his forehead, which, along with the rest of his face, had turned slightly red.  
  
"My, uh. My friend told me it was good, um. Music. Good music," said Louis, trying and failing to sound composed.  
  
Still there was silence from his father. His face, now, was showing more obvious signs of anger: his mouth was twisted into a knot, like he was trying to tie down all the ferocities he wanted to expel at his son. One of his eyebrows was twitching steadily, and it seemed to Louis that with each twitch, Jake's face became redder and redder.  
  
"Have you, um, heard any of his songs?" asked Louis tentatively. "They're really quite-"  
  
"I told you," said Jake slowly and quietly, though it was plain it took a lot of effort to do so. "I told you of the dangers of this kind of music. A valiant attempt to protect you from the poisons that this world is unleashing upon us. But here you are," he hissed, "purchasing music made by some man - no, not some man. Some faggot who is attracted to his own sex. Do you know how unnatural that is? Has it ever occurred to you that it's not right? I'm sure you know about sex, son, and how it's done. Think. Can you figure out how they do it? How two men have sex - no, how they fuck?"  
  
Louis had never really thought of this, it not having been on his list of things he really wanted to have a mental image of. He shook his head slowly, although it didn't take him long to understand. Jake pounced on this reaction and shouted,  
  
"It's the ass, son. They fuck each other up the ass. What is this shit you've brought into my house? The so-called music of some girly-guy that fancies other men." Jake paused, breathing heavily. "I can blame myself," he continued in a softer, though far from pleasant tone. "I've sheltered you too much. You need to know about the atrocities that are committed. Well, now you do. You know that you should never have brought this into the house, and I'm sure you will dispose of it as soon as possible, won't you, son?"  
  
Frightened out of his wits by what was going on, Louis' vision was obscured by tears. His father was now just a blur, a terrible blur of fury and hatred.  
  
Jake noticed this, and strode quickly up to Louis. "Don't cry," he shouted, shaking him by the shoulders, as though Louis' tears were some sign of suppressed effeminacy. "Don't you fucking start crying!" He pushed Louis away and raged over to the record player. "Damn this fucking fag! Straight to hell," he screamed, picking up the record and, to Louis' horror, bringing it down over his knee, the snap of plastic echoing in Louis' subconscious for several long seconds after the sound had ceased.  
  
***  
  
"It's not the record I'm worried about. There are plenty more where that came from, believe me. I think each of my friends has at least one copy, actually," said Jack, a half-laugh accentuating the last sentence.  
  
Louis sat shaking on a large, stuffed chair in Jack's living room. It was so soft and deep that he felt as though it would swallow him up soon - indeed, he wished it would.  
  
Jack sent him a concerned glance and dragged a wooden bench from in front of his polished black piano in front of Louis, sitting himself down on it. "Damn, Louis. Trust me, I'm not mad at you. I knew that if your parents found out they'd react badly, I just." he stopped, and tried unsuccessfully to catch Louis' eye. "I didn't know it would be this severe." He turned the two halves of the Ziggy Stardust album over in his hands pensively.  
  
"I don't want to be here anymore, Jack," said Louis tearfully. "I'm tired of all these people hating people like you."  
  
"Like us," said Jack.  
  
"Er," Louis began, turning a deep shade of red. "Erm, I'm not, uh, you know."  
  
"No worries, man," laughed Jack. "That's not what I meant. It's the accepting people that are feared here. They hate things they can't accept, and people who accept these new ideas and lifestyles are hated because of that. It doesn't matter whether the people actually participate in them. Not here, at least."  
  
"I don't want to be here," said Louis again.  
  
This time, Jack managed to gain eye contact with Louis, and it was as though a lightbulb had just flashed on inside his mind.  
  
"Hey, Louis," he said. "Have you ever been to the city?"  
  
"No," said Louis. "Can you take me there?"  
  
"Sure thing," grinned Jack. "Don't worry, you'll be back soon enough that your parents won't be worried - it's still kind of early in the afternoon."  
  
A smile lit up Louis' face. Go to the city; that's where Jack's friends were, he knew. Where people like Jack - like the two of them were. Maybe he'd even meet Jack's boyfriend, who he'd heard a lot about. His name was Theodore, but Jack usually called him Spot, which was his stage name.  
  
"Spot? That's a dog's name," Louis had pointed out skeptically.  
  
"Yeah, well," Jack replied with his trademark wry grin. "Spot's my bitch."  
  
***  
  
Their method of transportation was Jack's small, tomato juice-red car that looked like it had been through hell and back. "That's why it's red," Jack had explained. The inside was plain, very grey, but it was comfortable enough. It was slightly cramped for Louis, and was probably more so for Jack, who was a good head taller than Louis, although Louis was taller than a lot of people he knew.  
  
The city, like Jack's car, was very grey and haphazard, and smelled strongly of chemicals. They drove for well over two hours, but, to Louis, the time seemed to fly. He and Jack talked about everything under the sun and, at one point, some things beyond it.  
  
Eventually, Jack pulled the car up in front of a small bar, with a flashing sign that stood out in the dusk that was settling over the city. The sign red: "The Tainted Seraph" in red cursive writing, with white wing contours on either side, and the entire logo surrounded by a rectangle of flashing alternately purple and yellow lights.  
  
"Well, we're here," said Jack, taking the keys out of the ignition and pulling a small, beaten-up duffel back out from the back seat. "Tainted Seraph. 'dirty angel' in less impressive words."  
  
Louis jumped out of his reverie. "What?" he asked. "Here. Oh, that bar?"  
  
"Yeah, a gay bar." Jack looked amused, the same endearing grin returning to his face: "Man, someone's got the skitters."  
  
"Everyone says I'm jumpy," said Louis nervously. "My dad called it a bad case of the skitters."  
  
"Hm." Jack looked at him for a moment, grinned briefly, and then suddenly appeared quite thunderstruck. "Louis," he said. "Louis, this is really important. Do you know what a drag queen is?"  
  
"Er," said Louis, trying self-consciously to suppress a jump again. "Er, no."  
  
"Oh." The worried expression was replaced by a sardonic, amused one. "Well, I guess you're going to find out. Anyway, out we get," said Jack.  
  
And so Louis stepped out of Jack's car, and followed his host into the comparatively small, cube-shaped bar that was the Tainted Seraph.  
  
The first thing Louis noticed was the smoke. Of course, people smoked in the suburbs, he did himself, in fact, but it was usually in a more open space, where the smoke could dissipate into the air harmlessly. The gasoline-dirtied air of downtown New York that he had found so choking was quite fresh compared to the concentrated air in the bar.  
  
There was the actual bar at the back of the edifice, taking up half of the back wall. The bar seemed much larger than it had from the outside. Taking up the other half of the back wall was a stage elevated three or four feet off the ground, with no backdrop, and plain black curtains pulled back. A few yellow lights were switched on, shining at chance bits of the stage. Around the stage were several circular tables with chairs interspersed between them, though it was impossible to tell which chairs went with which table. The tables appeared to have just recently been wiped down, as had another counter taking up the front wall, looking out at the street.  
  
"Jack, baby," came a somewhat affected male voice from the mostly empty bar. "You'se heah early tonight. We was all just getting' ready for the foist number."  
  
Out from the shadows walked a short, straight-backed figure. Actually, he couldn't really be described as walking over to Jack: more like strutting over in a very self-aware manner. He was a very short, snub- nosed man who looked to be about nineteen or twenty, with striking, chesnut brown eyes.  
  
"Spot," whispered Jack to Louis, before bending down to hug the character and peck him on the cheek. Louis was highly amused by the couple they presented themselves as: Jack, a tall, friendly, polite man who at the moment looked like someone straight out of the 'burbs. Spot was extremely short, and looked like he'd been treated as royalty all his life, a cigarette dangling from one hand, and a very self-absorbed look to him.  
  
As Jack and Spot exchanged their show of affection, another young man appeared to greet Jack, and looked with interest at Louis through a mop of messy brown hair.  
  
"This," said Jack to Louis by way of introduction, "is Racetrack."  
  
Racetrack grinned and nodded at Louis. "How d'you do," he said, in a New Yorker voice with the slightest hint of an Italian accent in it. Louis smiled tentatively and stuck out his hand. As they shook hands, Louis noticed that this Racetrack man was wearing what looked to be eyeliner and glittery eyeshadow. In the semi-dark of the bar Louis couldn't be sure about this detail, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Racetrack was wearing lipstick, as well. Louis wondered if this was what Spot had meant by "getting ready."  
  
"We know who Race is," Spot interjected impatiently in his heavy Brooklyn accent, making Louis jump with surprise and look sheepishly away from "Race." "But who's dat fella ya got wit' ya?"  
  
"This," said Jack, putting his arm around Louis "is Skittery."  
  
**********  
  
Shoutouts!  
  
hilaRyB - I'm so glad you love reading it as much as I love writing it, because I do, you know! ^_^ Thank you so much for the rave reviews *glomp* And more glomps for being a Bowie fan, of course! =D  
  
misprint - ha HA, I warded off your obscene criticism skills! *does the warding-off-skillz boogie* But I'm so glad you like it, m'dear, and don't worry, I still think you're a smug little bitch even if you gave it a good review ^_~  
  
Deejay Rockstar - Never be ashamed to sing out Bowie tunes at the top of your lungs! If singing loudly and off-key is a bad thing, I'm going straight to hell, where I will continue to sing loudly and off-key.  
  
Gothic Author - Wow, I'm so proud of causing you to be nice to Jacky ^^ *hugs Jack* Glad you like it. "laughing at the lovely tone of storytelling," eh? Um, thanks ^^;;  
  
Pesky the Gremlin Goddess - Well thank you, but you're still an authoress extraordinaire. No arguments allowed. Gay!Jack palooza once this story gets going, believe me.  
  
Pyromaniacal Llama - Hah, Davey anti-fans unite! (Or, as the more dyslexic among us would say: "Untie!") Glad you like ^_^ 


End file.
